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be little different, save for the demons they’d
slay, rather than men or Fae.
Demons like his former queen, apparently.
He had offered himself to her, had wanted
her, or believed he did. And she had laughed
at him. He didn’t know what it meant. About
her, about himself.
He’d thought his darkness, Hellas’s gifts,
had been drawn to her, that they’d been
matched.
Perhaps the dark god had wanted him not
to swear fealty to Maeve, but to kill her. To
get close enough to do so.
Lorcan didn’t adjust his cape against the
gust of frigid air off the distant lake. Rather,
he leaned into the cold, into the ice on the
wind. As if it might rip away the truth.
“We’re leaving.”
Elide’s low voice cut through the roaring
silence of his thoughts.